


Of Tattoos and Scars

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, One Shot Collection, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2185806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three one-shot style fics that follow on from One Step At A Time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Tattoos and Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Remy (iamremy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/gifts).



> Okay... So it's like this.
> 
> Remy kindly took the time to comment on the white-trash love story of Chevy & Gypsy-Rose that was mentioned in One Step At A Time.
> 
> And... Clearly having nothing better to do with my time, I may have felt compelled to add to their story a little, while, at the same time, adding to that of everyone else's as well.
> 
> This collection is made up of two ficlets, and a drabble. The first two are probably only one very small step off just being fluff, while the last one is considerably darker. They do, however, tie together. And, yes, you will have had to have read One Step At A Time first.
> 
> Narrated by Ethan & self-beta'd.
> 
> Oh... And, yes, needless to say they're dedicated to Remy...

================  
One Step At A Time  
~ Omake ~  
For Remy...  
By TalithaX  
===============

 

The sounds of, and let's not sugar-coat things here, snickering coming from the hotel suite's dining table finally – you know, curiosity killing the cat and all that – getting the better of me, I lower the iPad and peer across at Jane and Benji as, leaning over a laptop and – between snickers and surreptitious glances over their shoulder, that is – whispering, they get up to God alone knows what.

“Do you think we should be concerned about whatever it is those two are clearly up to?” I query, turning my attention to Will and, seeing as I'm not stupid enough to touch his – ticklish had nothing on it – feet that are resting on a cushion on top of my lap, tapping my finger lightly on his knee. “I mean... Just look at them. They're clearly up to something.”

“Clearly,” Will agrees, giving me an amused look over the top of the novel he's reading. “Let's face it. They're already doing a pretty good job of feeding your paranoia, so that... clearly... has to count in terms of being up to... something.”

“Just... Look at them,” I frown as, flipping the iPad's case closed, I lean forward and place it on the coffee-table. “Snickering, and... whispering. It's not right.”

“Why?” Will counters with a sigh as he marks his page with a bookmark and rests his book down on his lap. “We've already claimed the sofa, so it's not as though they could be sitting over here, and... I don't know. Maybe they're just watching stupid clips on Youtube or something.”

“Or... something, more like,” I murmur, flashing Will a sheepish smile as looking, it just has to be said, somewhat hopeful, he picks his book back up. “Sorry. You go back to your reading, and I'll...”

“Go back to yours,” Will finishes, looking pointedly at my iPad. “Seriously, Ethan. I'm sure they're not up to anything and that you're perfectly safe to go back to reading this week's mission reports.”

“Fine, fine.” Picking the iPad up, I flip the case open, turn it on, and... can't for the life of me concentrate on the words filling the screen. Our own mission having come to a successful end earlier this evening, it's not even as though I should particularly care about what Jane and Benji are getting up to. If they want to faff around on a computer while – party animals, the lot of us – Will and I read on the sofa, then, hey, that's their look out. Our time is our own until we have to go to the airport in the morning to catch our flight back to the States and, when all is said and done, I'm just glad that we're all here in one piece. Tired and, as always, ever so slightly battered, but here, together, and enjoying a small moment of what you could probably call our very own version of domesticity. Will, wearing his glasses and taking up three-quarters of the sofa as he sprawls across both it and me, is reading a novel – an actual honest-to-goodness paperback, not, to Benji's continued disbelief, an e-book on his iPad – while I'm biding my time between mission reports, news sites, and...

Fighting a losing battle over not worrying about what the other two are up to.

Fine.

It's paranoia on my part. I get that. I also get that I'm possibly being – irrational – stupid and should just concentrate on my own reading instead of... reading between the lines and reaching the conclusion that I'm not going to like what surely has to be coming.

But...

I know my team.

No.

Make that...

I know my friends.

And I know that two of them just have to be up to something. The snickering, and the whispering, and the way they keep looking over their shoulders and, I swear, smirking at me.

They're up to something.

I just know they are.

“What's the worse they can do, huh?” Will murmurs, lifting his foot from the cushion only to prod me in the thigh with his toe before returning it to my lap. “Come on, Ethan. Cheer up. So what if they make you watch some cat taking a bath or whatever on Youtube? Just... Think about it. If that's the worst thing to happen to you today then, hey, I'd say you'd had a pretty good day, wouldn't you?”

“It's not a cat taking a bath,” Jane pipes up as, grinning wickedly, she stands up. “Just wait a minute or two though and you'll get to see... uh... the fruits of our labour for yourself.”

“We... will?” Although it's hard, I somehow manage to resist the urge to shoot Will a triumphant – 'ha! I told you they were up to something!' – look and watch as Benji deftly links the laptop up to the room's wide-screen television before dragging one of the dining chairs over to the sofa and, all the time grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat on acid, taking a seat on it.

“Your search,” Benji declares, sharing an amused look with Jane as she positions herself behind the sofa and, leaning forward, rests her arms down on the back of it just by my head, “it is over!”

“My search? What... search?” I mutter, giving Benji what I truly hope he translates correctly as a warning look.

“Your search for the... star crossed...”

“Gator crossed,” Jane corrects with a snort of laughter. “I'd have gone with... gator crossed, myself.”

“Fine.” Nodding his agreement, Benji pulls a small remote from out of his pocket and uses it to turn on the television. “Ethan... Your search for the... uh... gator crossed... lovers is no more!” he continues with far, far too much enthusiasm for my liking as, suddenly, it hits me where they just might be going with this.

“What? No...” I shake my head and, after dropping the iPad back down on the coffee-table table, fold my arms across my chest in a perfectly childish display of petulant annoyance. “Jane... Benji...”

“Chevy and Gypsy-Rose, we've found them!” Jane announces cheerfully as, just for good measure, she ruffles my hair. “We knew, after what went down in the Everglades, that you would have had to have been worried about them, so...”

“Uh... News flash, here. I wasn't worried about them at all.”

“So we turned our crack investigative skills on to finding them for you,” Jane continues as though I'd never even opened my mouth, “and... voilà! We've found them.”

“And their twins,” Benji adds, tilting his head back and smirking at Jane.

“Twins?” I groan. I just can't help it. Ignoring the hell I was put through at the hands of the Aryan Warriors over the... forbidden... love-affair of Chevy and young Gypsy-Rose, the thought of her giving birth to a single child had always been bad enough without now learning that she'd had twins. Just... Twins! Dear God. “Just... Why?” I whine because, well, like the groan a second a go, I just can't help myself. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because we thought you'd want to know,” Benji beams as, using the remote, he brings a photo of a truly decrepit looking trailer up on the television screen. “Not only did Gypsy-Rose give birth to two boys, but Chevy cast off the Southern Brotherhood shackles in the name of true love and, not only did he find her, but they're now playing happy families together in Atlanta. See? Home sweet home.”

“Home sweet home,” I repeat with another groan. “Oh. Absolutely. They must be so proud.”

“At least they're still together,” Will offers somewhat cautiously as, curiosity no doubt getting the better of him, he lifts his feet off my lap and sits up. “I mean... I suppose that has to count for something.”

“If I actually cared, which, once again with a news flash here, people, I... don't, I'm sure it would,” I mutter, unfolding my arms and rubbing my hands over my face. “These two... You... do... all remember what I went through courtesy of Chevy not being able to keep it in his pants, yeah?”

“We do,” Jane confirms, closing her hands around my shoulders and gently massaging them as Will shifts closer and, after curling his legs up on to the sofa, leans warmly against me. “We also, just call it out of idle curiosity, felt you might like to know what become of them.”

“You thought... wrong.”

“But... It's a white-trash love story!” Benji states, gesturing at the screen. “Look. Chevy and Gypsy-Rose, living happily forever after in their very own trailer in Atlanta!”

“With their twins,” Jane adds, “Harry-Impala, and Ron-Camaro... Oh, and before you feel compelled to ask, the answer is yes... Their names are... hyphenated.”

I groan. Again. “Of course they're hyphenated,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Impala and Camaro, I get, 'cos, hey, gotta stay true to daddy's namesake car brand, but... Harry? Ron? Where the hell did they get them from?”

Shrugging, Benji changes the photo on the screen to one of two small boys wearing Nascar romper-suits and – teething on what I swear to God looks like a (hopefully) rubber gun – lying on a rug emblazoned with the barely recognisable face of Elvis on it. “We're thinking they must have got them from the Harry Potter books.”

“Movies, more like,” Will comments with a shrug of his own. “I mean, think about it, Benji... Do you... really... think either of the parents would be much of a reader?”

“Good point,” Jane murmurs as, having lost interest in massaging my shoulders, she straightens up and stretches. “Quite frankly I'd be surprised if they could even... read, so, yeah, you're probably right. Harry-Impala, and Ron-Camaro, though... What do you think, Ethan? It's just... a lovely story, isn't it?”

“Lovely,” I grind out. “Seriously. You have no idea how... delighted... I am to learn that Chevy and Gypsy-Rose, with their movie and car inspired offspring, are living happily forever after in a trailer-park in Atlanta. It... It just warms my heart, it really does.”

“Chevy's even got a job at a local mechanic's,” Benji adds, switching the photo on the screen over to – dear God – a family shot. “Granted, it's also the hang out for the local meth dealer and, okay, fine, it may also be the local chop-shop, but, hey... At least he's trying.”

“Trying?” Will mutters, pulling a face as he points at the screen. “If... that's... trying then... I'd hate to see what letting themselves go would look like.”

“Given the family gene pool?” I reply, following Will's lead and wrinkling my nose at the image filling the screen. “I almost hate to say this, but my guess would be they'd probably look exactly the same.”

“Like a slightly, and I really do mean only slightly here, younger version of Dolly Parton and... I don't know... Meatloaf?” Will offers hesitantly as, leaning across me, he pokes Benji in the arm and gestures at him to get the – offending – image off the screen. “Just... What hope do the poor twins have?”

“Again, given their gene pool here, I'd say they'd have a lovely red-neck future in front of them. Who knows, if they study hard they might even be able to aspire to a job at Walmart.”

“Well... Those shelves don't stock themselves, I suppose.”

“Exactly.”

“To each their own, I, again, suppose,” Will murmurs with a weak smile as he settles back down against my side and places his hand on my thigh. “And, hey... At least they're still together.”

“And living a merry life in their very own trailer on Hillbilly Way,” Benji interjects as, having apparently finished his show and tell, he switches off the television and returns the remote to his pocket. “Actually... I made that last bit up. But, you know, artistic license and all that, and... even you'd have to agree Hillbilly Way sounds better than... uh... Row Two.”

“Infinitely better,” I retort, once again following Will's lead as I jab my finger in Benji's arm. “Just... Why, huh? Why did the pair of you feel compelled to bring me up to speed on Chevy and Gypsy-Rose, huh? You do, I hope, remember that I could have died in Gypsy-Rose's family... hovel, and that I've... still... got the scar to prove it, yeah?”

“Now... On that...” Walking around the sofa, Jane, after pushing the iPad out of the way, takes a seat on the coffee-table directly in front of me and shares a – shit eating grin – look with Benji.

“On... what?”

“Your scar,” Jane replies, pointing in the general vicinity of my waist. “We were thinking...”

“That you might like to get a tattoo around it to... commemorate... the event,” Benji finishes with a far too enthusiastic nod. “You know, something to...”

“Keep Chevy and Gypsy-Rose with you forever,” Jane pipes up, winking at Benji no doubt by way of congratulating him on how well their tag-team act is working. “Just think about it, you...”

“Could get a Chevrolet car covered by a climbing rose, yeah? Like...”

“You know, a muscle car. It'd be great. You could...”

“Get an... I know! You could get the Metallicar!”

“Excuse me, the... what?” Will interjects, glancing up at me and frowning with obvious confusion. “I thought I was keeping up with the... insanity... here, but... uh... Sorry. You've lost me.”

“The 1967 Chevy Impala from Supernatural,” Benji explains, taking the iPad from Jane as she – ever-so-helpfully – hands it over to him and quickly going through Google to bring up a picture of, to my way of thinking anyway, an old black car on the screen. “Look! It'd be perfect, yeah. Think about it. It's a Chevy, and an Impala all in one! All you'd need...”

“Are a few roses...”

“And maybe a wand or two for the Harry Potter element,” Will adds, cutting Jane off and earning himself not a look of disapproval or annoyance, but a positively blinding smile from her in the process. “I... I'm not really picturing it myself, but... Maybe if you found the right artist?” 

“Ha! At least Will's getting it,” Jane declares triumphantly as, laughing, she shoots me a smug look. “Got it in one, actually. You could get the car from Supernatural, plus...”

“Or,” I interrupt with yet another long suffering groan, “what I could get myself is a new team. How does that strike you all, huh?”

“Like you're the very definition of no fun, actually,” Jane mutters, leaning forward and slapping my knee. “Look. As I've already told Benji, getting a tattoo doesn't hurt, and...”

“Hey! On that...” Giving me the sort of wary look that tells me he's suddenly rethinking whether continuing to bait me is a good idea or not, Benji turns to Jane and, both very slowly and very pointedly, looks her up and down. “You know, you still haven't told me where... or what... your tattoo is.”

“And I'm not going to, either,” she retorts, swivelling around on the coffee-table to better face Benji and flashing him an unbothered smile.

“But...”

“I've told you before, I'm not going to tell you anything about my tatt until you agree to get one yourself.”

“And... As I've told... you... before, I just don't have it in me to choose what to get!” Benji replies, frowning at Jane as, content that the heat's clearly off me for the time being, I drape my arm around Will's shoulder and settle back just to enjoy the show. “If I could decide what to get then, hey, I'd be there will bells on, but...”

“Actually, I've been thinking about your... dilemma, and I think I've come up with the perfect tattoo for you.”

“You have?”

“I have.”

“And... Uh... What would that be?”

“One of those... exterminating things!”

“One of those... exterminating things?” Benji echoes, his frown intensifying as he tries to work out just what it is Jane's getting at here. “Like, the... Terminator? Uh... Sorry, Jane, but why on earth would I want bloody Arnold Schwarzenegger tattooed anywhere on my body?”

“Not the Terminator. You know, one of those... things... with an egg beater attached to it!”

“I think she means a Dalek,” Will murmurs, looking pleased with himself for having something to add to the... not at all random or completely and utterly freakin' strange... conversation.

“Oh my God, you're right!” Benji exclaims, his eyes brightening with what could well be glee. “A Dalek, yes! And, yeah, okay, a Dalek... is, I suppose, a kind of exterminating thing.”

“And you know this... how?” I query, raising my eyebrow at Will.

“Because taking an interest in things, however... peculiar... they might be, that your friends like is the... polite thing to do,” Will replies with a small shrug. “That, and... I like the way they say exterminate all the time. What can I say? It amuses me.”

Leaning forward, Jane pokes Benji in the thigh and, as seems to be the norm for this evening, gives him a smug look. “See? An exterminating... thing... with an egg beater attached to it. Will knew what I was talking about.”

“And... You think I should get one tattooed... somewhere... on my body?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“But...”

“You don't have to, of course,” Jane replies, giving his leg another poke, “but the ball's in your court. Either put some actual thought in to getting your own, or stop asking me about mine.”

“But...”

Tuning Jane and Benji's banter out for a moment, I tighten my arm around Will and, as I fight the urge to start laughing, it suddenly dawns on me that, right at this very moment at least, I'm teamed with...

… A group of kittens.

Granted, it's a completely – whack – out there thought, but... Given the insanity surrounding me at the moment, what chance did I really have to stave it off?

Just... If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, and all that.

So...

Yeah.

Kittens.

Jane. The confident one who is perfectly comfortable with her place in the world and who can get everyone else to play with her. She's also feisty, and loyal, and pretty much close to impossible to ignore.

Then there's Benji. The slightly quirky one that's just as likely to surprise you by doing something completely random – and unintentionally hilarious – as he is to be found camped out in front of a flickering screen of some description. Friendly, always wants to be around others, and easily missed whenever he's not around.

And, last but by no means least, there's Will. The – and, yes, I acknowledge here that it's just a little too close for comfort – rescue... The one who doesn't like strangers and who it takes a lot to get to know. The one... everyone looks out for. What he also is though, once he trusts you, that is, is the most... loving, the most... cuddly, and the most... determined of all. There's nothing he can't do, and...

I'd be lost without him.

Without all of them, actually.

Even if they are all quite mad.

“Do I want to know?” Will whispers in my ear as, their argument still showing no signs of coming to an end, Jane and Benji continue bickering about tattoos. 

“Want to know... what?” I reply, giving him a smile as I turn to face him. “Whether Benji's going to cave and get a tatt or not?”

“No... Seeing as you seemed to be smirking to yourself, I was just wondering what you might have been thinking,” he murmurs, returning my smile.

“Maybe I was giving some thought to their tattoo idea...”

“Uh-huh, and... I'm... Tigger!”

“Actually... I was thinking more along the lines of a kitten, myself.”

“You... were?”

“Uh... Maybe...”

“Anyone ever tell you that, well, you're a little mad?” Laughing softly, Will curls his fingers around the inner seam of my jeans and, without even bothering to check to see whether the others are watching or not, plants a quick kiss on my cheek.

“Me? Mad? So says the man who knows what a Dalek is, and... Hell. Don't even get me started on those two and their delusion that I wanted to know what dear ol' Chevy and Gypsy-Rose were up to...” Trailing off, I grin at Will and, after giving him a fleeting kiss on the lips, shrug. “Okay. Fine. Maybe we all just deserve each other.”

“Oddly enough,” Will murmurs, returning my grin as he rests his head down on my shoulder, “I think I can live with that. You?”

“Oh... Well and truly.”

Not just... live with, in fact. More like...

Rely on.

And revel in.

And never, not for a second, forget that because of these three people in the room with me, I just happen to be one of the luckiest men alive. 

~ end ~

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

===========================  
Untitled One Step At A Time Drabble  
By TalithaX  
===========================

 

Bringing the surveillance van, our – dear God, kill me now – home away from home for the next however many days, to a smooth stop opposite the travel-agent's-slash-front-for-a-people-smuggling-operation we're having to keep a very watchful eye on, I kill the engine, glance across at the shop I've just parked in front of, and...

Groan.

Loudly.

"Before anyone feels compelled to say anything," I state in a warning tone as I swivel around in my seat to shoot – the Terrible Twins – both Jane and Benji a death stare, "just... Don't. Okay? Think it, if you have to, but do not, under any circumstance, give voice to it, as..."

"We'd be only too happy to hold the fort..."

"Like the Alamo," Benji interrupts with a smirk as, not content with simply cutting Jane off, he gives her a gentle dig in the ribs with his elbow. "Seriously, Ethan. It... Just... Look! It's meant to be!"

"Uh... What... exactly... is meant to be?" Will queries, looking up from his iPad and giving me a confused – 'Oh... We've come to a stop. When did that happen?' – look

"Ethan's tatt," Jane retorts as, snickering, she gestures out the window to the, truly hygienic and classy looking, Fire and Ice Tattoo Parlour. "Look. As Benji said, it's like it's meant to be."

Why me?

Seriously.

Resisting, somehow, the urge to – loudly, of course – sigh, I drum my fingers against the steering wheel and mentally count to five before replying. "How many times do I have to tell you, huh?" I mutter. "I... Am... Not... Getting... A... Tattoo."

"You're being too closed minded to the idea," Jane replies, reaching over the seat and prodding me on the shoulder. "As we've tried so very hard to impress on you, Chevy and Gypsy-Rose's love story is... one for the ages, and we think you..."

"I... Am... Not... Getting... A..."

"The Metallicar," Benji pipes up as, in the rear vision mirror, I watch him wink at Jane. "It's not just... a... Chevy, it's the Metallicar."

"And I don't care if it's the Yellow Submarine or the Goddamn Enterprise, as, listen to what I'm saying, I'm not getting a freakin' tattoo!"

"You know," Will murmurs with the slightest of disapproving looks as he peers out the window at the – den of inequity, if ever there was one – tattoo parlour, "I'm not saying I think you should get the... uh... Metallicar... or whatever it is tattooed on you, but... Tattoos... They... are... a good method of identifying a body.” 

Oh yeah. This just keeps getting better and better. It really does.

I mean, now Will's getting in on the act as well?

What next? A face-time call to Luther so he too can have his say?

"You... What?" Shaking my head, I bury my face in my hands and don't know whether to laugh, cry, or... howl. "Uh... Thanks, William... No. Really. Thanks for that, but... You're not helping."

"I'm just saying, that's all..." Shrugging, Will turns his iPad back on and returns to his reading. "Hey... It wasn't as though I was advocating it, or..." Trailing off, he blushes a particularly endearing shade of pink. "Or... uh...that I'd actually need something to be able to identify your body by."

"You think, then, that you could manage it, identifying my corpse, that is, without a... homage... to the white trash love story of the decade forever marked on my body?"

"Pretty confident, yeah," he replies, glancing up and giving me an amused look as a hint of a smile tugs on his lips.

"Well, that's a relief, then," I retort, returning Will's smile before once again turning around to face the... trouble-makers... in the back seat. "As for you two, you've had your fun and it's now time to get to work, so..."

"So..." Jane repeats, sharing a look with – her partner in button pushing crime – Benji. "I'm thinking, then, that now wouldn't be the time to tell you that Gypsy-Rose is expecting again?

 

~ end ~

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

===========================  
Scars  
~ A 'One Step At A Time' One-Shot ~  
by TalithaX  
===========================

 

Keeping my eyes closed, I let the beautiful simplicity of the moment wash over me and, not for the first time, idly wish that it could last longer than history tells me it's going to. In its own, actually far more special way, it's as good as everything that's only just come before it. My orgasm of only a few short moments ago is already little more than a memory, and in the back of my mind I might know what's going to take place any second now, but, for now, for as long as it lasts...

It's good.

Dear God is it good.

Innocent. Comforting. And, although I'm somewhat loath to pay thoughts like this too much attention, even – dare I say it – normal.

For an all too brief moment, absolutely nothing else matters. We're just two lovers basking in the afterglow of our love-making and that, quite literally, is all.

And, actually, calling it just... good... doesn't even do the moment full justice as, for me anyway, it really is nothing short of spectacular.

What it is to Will, however, is probably another one of those things I'm just better off not thinking about. For all I know, to Will it could be nothing more that an exercise in both willpower and carefully monitored timing. I hope this isn't the case. Hell, I'd... hate... for it to be the case, absolutely fucking hate it, but...

I know what's coming.

I know that, much sooner than I want it to, lying here naked will get the better of Will's not entirely broad comfort-zone and he'll up and leave me in order to pull on his pyjamas. He won't be gone long. In fact, he'll be back within minutes. He'll even, once he's covered and no longer feeling quite so – in every sense of the word – bare, return to my side and once again settle himself around me. 

It just...

… Won't be the same though.

I'm not saying it won't be good, as of course it will. It's how we sleep every night that we're together. Always touching, and always covered by pyjamas. I like to think it's even something we both take for granted or possibly even... rely on. A comforting, reassuring way to, regardless of what it might have thrown at us, end the day. 

It's just...

… Sometimes, like now for example, not having the barrier of clothing between us just adds a different element to that... taken for granted and reassuring... comfort. I'm not saying I wish it was always like this as I don't. Truth be told, having to wear to something to bed doesn't bother me. Ignoring Will's obvious preference, sleeping nude has never really been my thing either as thanks to our line of work you never quite know when you might have to bolt from bed and be out of the door in mere seconds – and, hey, it's always been pretty easy to accept that having do so naked would just make a no doubt already bad situation even worse. 

So...

When all is said and done, I'm actually more than fine with pyjamas.

I just...

… Like this too, that's all.

I like the feel of Will's bare leg draped loosely over mine. Just as I also like the feel of his breath on my naked chest as the arm I've got curled around his shoulders holds him warmly against me.

I like the innocence and, again, although it pains me a little to even think along these lines, the simple normalcy of the moment.

Then again, maybe it's not even the feel of Will's body pressed against mine that makes the moment so precious to me. Maybe it's just the fact that I hate what's coming so much that, in turn, it heightens it, this false sense of – again – normalcy, into something far more than it actually is. Actually, even that's not entirely true. No. It's knowing... why... it has to happen that I hate.

I hate that Will feels as though he has to cover himself up, that, despite having a body any man in his right mind would be proud of, he's just not comfortable in his own skin.

Most of all, I just...

… Hate knowing... why... it is he feels this way.

While I'm at it, I also hate that mother fucker Salter for the hell he inflicted on him, and, even without knowing the first thing about them, I hate each and every one of the faceless men who used him as though they felt it was their God given right.

It...

It's just not fair.

It really isn't.

I know it's been said a million and one times before, and that still thinking it now is as pointless as – what's done is, unfortunately, done – it's ever been, but Will didn't deserve what happened to him. No-one would have and, yeah, yeah, bad things happen to good people all the time, but... There's bad, and then there's... really... bad. Bad is... being injured and ending up in hospital. In time though, you'll heal and it'll just become a memory. Really bad, however, is... having to live with it every day of the rest of your life. It's... doubting yourself, and... feeling worthless, and... hating your body, and... having your entire life forever thrown in to disarray. It's...

… Still feeling the after effects fifteen months after it ended. 

That's what really bad is.

And I hate it.

I hate knowing that I can't do anymore than I already am, that... regardless of how hard we both try, it will never truly be enough, and that... Will will forever have it hanging over his head. He's come so far that I'm both proud of him and trust him with my life, yet it's moments like this, the very moment I should in fact just be making the most of instead of dwelling on, that seems to bring out – the worst in me – all my fears and concerns.

All because he was forced to associate nudity with both pain and being exposed and, because of this, can't feel comfortable lying naked next to me.

Again, it's just not fair.

Reality, in the form of Will's finger tracing aimless circles around the scar on my side from when I was shot and very nearly lost my life in the Everglades, settling over me and – for now, at least – banishing my going nowhere thoughts, I open my eyes and smile down him. While there's a lot of things I could say or do, the most sensible of which would be to either pull the bedding over him or get up and hand him his pyjamas, I decide, instead, to travel down the light hearted path and murmur, “Please don't tell me you're thinking what it is I think you're thinking...”

“I doubt it,” Will replies quietly as, frowning slightly, he continues to trail his fingers across my scar, “but... Try me anyway.”

“The attention you're paying that scar,” I respond, trying to inject an amused tone in to my voice even though there's just something in Will's demeanour that's already making me wish I'd never opened my mouth, “it's because you're giving careful thought to Jane and Benji's ever-helpful insistence that I get a tattoo there, isn't it...”

“What? No...” His frown intensifying, Will jerks his hand away and, without looking at me, sits up and, after settling himself with his back against the headboard, presses his ankles together and brings his knees up to his chest. He then, to my immediate dismay, wraps his arms around his shins and rests his chin on his knees so that he's staring directly in front of him. “I don't think you should get a tattoo at all,” he whispers. “I mean... Uh... Not that it's anything to do with me anyway. If... If you want to get a tattoo then...”

“Trust me, I... don't... want to get a tattoo,” I interrupt, shifting into a sitting position and following Will's lead by leaning against the headboard. “What's more, I'm... not... going to get one either, so... Come on, Will. What's the matter, huh? You seem...”

“I was just thinking about... scars, that's all,” he murmurs with a small shrug.

“Scars?” Just call it instinct, but I'm fairly certain I don't want to be having this conversation.

“Mmm... Scars. What caused them. What they represent. What... could have been...” Sighing, Will hugs his knees to his chest and closes his eyes. “It doesn't matter. Just... forget I ever said anything.”

Scars... 

Like the one on my side that he was just tracing his finger around, the one that, if I hadn't been rescued when I had, could possibly have been the end of me. 

Or maybe he's thinking about the numbers that were branded in to the back of the neck of all the women we successfully rescued from the human trafficking operation. Sure, we saved them from being sold into a life of slavery, but, even so, they'll still be forever marked by the number burnt into their flesh. The number that represents what... could have been, and which... will now always be there.

Or maybe, and this would be worst of all, he's thinking of the ones on his back. The three deep welts caused by some asshole who didn't know what he was doing with a whip and which, to this day, stand out stark across his pale flesh. The ones that I know keep him from going swimming and which, even though he's never come out and said it, I know he doesn't even like me touching.

“Will...” Idly – and, no, the irony isn't lost on me – wishing that things had stayed true to form and he'd simply gotten up and pulled on his pyjamas instead of falling prey to thoughts about scars of all things, I drape my arm around Will's slumped shoulders and am in the process of trying to hug him to me when he pulls away and swings his legs over the edge of the mattress.

“I... I never should have said anything,” he states hoarsely as, clearly not quite knowing what to do with himself, he just sits there gazing down at the floor. 

Our luggage being on the other side of the room, I can't help but get the impression he doesn't want to have to walk past me to get his pyjamas and don't know whether I should just get up and retrieve them for him, or... whether I should take a moment or two to see if I can get through to him first. The kindest thing would, of course, be to just get his pyjamas, and God knows the last thing I want to do is either stress him out or inadvertently hurt him in any way, but...

There's something weighing on Will's mind, and if I don't get it out of him now, while he's vulnerable, I probably never will.

So...

I'll try.

For all of one, and one only, attempt, I'll see if I can get to the bottom of what's going on his head.

“You know you can say anything to me,” I murmur, crawling across the mattress and positioning myself behind him. “Will? It's okay. Scars are just... one of those things. In fact... I challenge you to find one person who doesn't have at least one somewhere on their body...”

“I hate them,” Will whispers dejectedly as, his shoulders slumping even further down, he wraps his arms around his torso. “I... I hate what they represent, and I... I hate knowing how easily things could have ended up differently.”

“We're all still here though. You. Me. Even those women. I'm not saying I view scars as a badge of survival, but...”

“I hate them,” he repeats flatly, cutting me off. “You could have died in that mosquito infested hell-hole, those poor women are now forever marked with a Goddamn number, and I... I...” Trailing off, he shakes his head. “It's not like I'm not already pathetic enough or anything, but... but I can't even say it.”

“You don't have to...” Refusing to give in to either the tears I can suddenly feel wanting to well in my eyes or the futile desire to just ball my hands in to fists, I shift a little closer to Will and place my hands lightly on his shoulders. He doesn't have to say it, and the reason he doesn't have to say it is because, simply put, it... goes without saying. If it hadn't been for my mark insisting on taking me for absinthe that night in Paris, he might never have been rescued, and... 

It's just one of those things that simply doesn't bear thinking about. 

“Will, I... I know...”

“That night, before I was taken to you, the... the senior handler, he... he actually asked me if I wanted to go,” Will murmurs, seemingly apropos of nothing, in a voice barely above that of a whisper. “I'd been sick all day because of what had been done to me the night before and I... I think it was only because he thought you'd be offended by my back, if... if not the very sight of me, and didn't want to be seen as sending out... soiled goods, but... He did. For the first ever I was actually... asked... if I wanted to be...”

“Then... Why'd you go?” I interrupt, not because I'm anxious to be taken back to the events of that fateful night but because I want to save Will from having to find the right word – be it molested, raped, or tortured – to use. “You could have said... uh... that is, you could have indicated no...”

“Maybe I could have, but I... I didn't care. It... It was all I was good for, and, seriously, I just didn't even care,” he replies just a tad breathlessly as, no doubt wishing he'd never started down this particular path, the memories threaten to both overwhelm and get the better of him. “That, and... While I didn't care about what you were planning to put me through, I... I was still worried that if I said no the consequences would turn out to be even worse, that... it was all just a trick somehow and I... I'd only be punished for daring to have an opinion...”

“Will, I...” The tears once again threatening to fall, I blink them back and search desperately for the right things to say. This... As this is all news to me though, it's hard. Dear God is it hard. I never, not for a second, expected anyone other than Number Twenty-Eight to be delivered to my hotel room that night and, if it hadn't been the man I'd been trying to convince myself... wasn't... an IMF agent by the name of William Brandt, I...

I don't know what I would have done.

If Khavin hadn't taken me to La Fee Verte...

If I hadn't... seen something in his photograph that I recognised...

If Will had risked the consequences of staying behind and the club had sent another slave out to me... I mean, the idea of seeing my... paranoia... through in terms of finding out who Number Twenty-Eight just happened to be was definitely strong, and I wouldn't have just thrown in the towel and given up if he hadn't been delivered that night, but...

Knowing what I do now – that I was right, what... he was going through – just the thought, the mere... thought.. of delaying his rescue for so much as a couple of more hours makes me feel sick to the stomach.

“It... It's okay,” I murmur, gently squeezing my hands around Will's shoulders as much to reassure him that it's okay, that I'm here for him, as it is to reassure myself that, yes, he's actually here. “Everything fell in to place, and... You're here. We're... here. It... Oh, God, Will... Things, they're okay, yeah...”

“They're... okay,” Will confirms softly as he reaches up and place his left hand over mine. “While you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise given the way I'm carrying on, of course they're okay. In fact, they're... better... than okay and I apologise for coming over all... strange... on you. It... It's just that once I started thinking about scars, this... this is where I ended up and I... I apologise for it. You didn't need...”

“Neither did you,” I interject, planting a quick kiss on the top of his head as I remove my right hand from his shoulder and lightly trace my finger along the largest of the scars across his back. “But... Again, it's okay. It really is. Scars... They're just not worth working yourself up over, and...” 

“Don't... Please, Ethan,” Will whispers with the just the right note of breathless pleading tone to his voice to immediately make me feel like the lowest life-form on earth as goosebumps break out across his skin and he cringes at my – apparently careless – touch. “Just... Don't... touch them...”

Feeling more than a little breathless myself at his reaction, I jerk my hands away from him and, not knowing what else to do, shuffle back and slump down until my butt is resting on my heels. “Will, they're just...”

“Hideous. They're just... hideous, that... that's what they are.”

“I was actually going to say that they're just... scars,” I murmur, once again not wanting to add to Will's obvious distress but, at the same time, just wanting to do what – little – I can to get it through to him that they're nowhere near as bad as he's clearly convinced himself they are. Yes, they're obvious and, yes, I hate knowing what caused them, but at the end of the day they're just part of Will and, despite wishing this wasn't the case at all, to me anyway they've just always been there.

“I... I don't know how you can even look at them, let alone... bring yourself to touch them,” Will mutters, glancing over his shoulder and giving me a beseeching look through bright eyes. “They're...”

“Part of you,” I finish as matter-a-factly as I can manage. “That's all they are, Will. They're a part of you.”

“They... They shouldn't be! They shouldn't be there...”

“But they are, and...” Taking a deep breath, I return my hands to Will shoulders and, as he gives every impression of just wanting to get up and bolt, press down on them. “They're a part of you, they've been there ever since I met you, and... Listen to me, Will, this... this is just how I know you, as...”

“As a freak!” he exclaims with obvious agitation as he tries half-heartedly to pull away from me.

“No.” Accepting that this has gone too far, I release my hold on Will and climb off the mattress I then, after quickly pulling on my pyjama pants and grabbing Will's from his bag, walk around the bed and, after placing his pyjamas next to him, take his hand in mine and carefully pull him upright. “As you,” I state thickly as, to my great relief, Will puts up no resistance and just relaxes in to my embrace. “Your scars are a part of you, but that's all they are. They're not hideous, they certainly don't mark you... as a freak, and... they... they really are just another part of you. When I look at them, all I see is... you...”

“But...”

“And when I see you,” I interrupt, calmly cutting him off as I both hug him tightly and rest my forehead against his, “what I'm really seeing, hell... make that, all... that I'm seeing, is the man I love... Not his scars, or the memories of how he... shouldn't... have got them, or even... anything else for that matter. Will, I...” Taking a deep breath, I push through the emotion and just... go for it. “I love you, scars and all, and I... I just don't know what else to say or... what more I can do to get it through to you...”

“I...” Lifting his head, Will blushes and, through eyes bright with unshed tears, flashes me one of his heart-breakingly beautiful smiles. “I know,” he whispers, leaning forward and planting a fleeting kiss on my cheek. “Just as, and I really hope you already know this, I love you too. I... Of course I do.”

“I not only know, I also thank my lucky stars for it,” I reply, softening the emotionally-laden truth of my response behind a grin as I loosen my hold on Will in order to reach over to the bed and pick up his pyjama pants. “Now...” I hand him his pants and, as he gives me a grateful look before quickly pulling them on, look pointedly at the mattress. “What do you say we just put a full-stop on this night and go to bed, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” Will agrees, giving my cheek another kiss as he grabs his top and pulls it on. “You know...” Pausing as he willingly lets me take on the self-imposed task of doing up the buttons on his pyjama top, he smiles and, to my continued relief, laughs. “You're actually so good to me, what with putting up with my random moods and... uh... everything else, that... even if you... were... to disfigure yourself with a tattoo of an Impala, I think I could still possibly bring myself to love you...”

“Possibly, huh?” Groaning, I shake my head and, once, that is, I've made a mental note to... possibly wave a gun at Jane and Benji the next time they feel compelled to bring up their pet subject of wanting me to get a tattoo, echo Will's laugh. “I'll...” Shaking my head again, I wrap my arms around Will and, as we settle together instinctively and he slides his arms around my waist, add, “I'll be sure to keep that in mind!”

~ end ~


End file.
